Saturday, 8 October 2016

From the Archive: Bloomsday in Melbourne 2011

Susannah Frith as the Celtic narrator

This is a report of 'Joyce and the Nation', Bloomsday
in Melbourne 2011. It first appeared on the Bloomsday in Melbourne website in that year. It is the report referred to in Max Richards' email of the 19th of June 2011, in which he goes on to describe events happening at the same time in Geelong.

An
Unblinkered Report by Philip Harvey

The great Cyclops of the internet, brought to us each day
courtesy of the one-eyed screen, is not the only way to learn about literature.
This year Bloomsday in Melbourne reminded attendees once again of the extensive
theatrical possibilities inside the writings of James Joyce. We were presented
with what could be called a binocular vision of the episode in ‘Ulysses’ set in
Barney Kiernan's pub, the results of which were a brilliant poetic comedy.

Readers of ‘Ulysses’ readily remember that this episode
comprises a kind of parallel text. Realistic accounts of the rantings and
ravings of a bunch of boyos at the bar are interleaved with mock-heroic
passages in celebration of an older Ireland that may or may not have existed.
The ‘Irish Twilight’ digressions were recited by an amazing actor (Susannah
Frith) who went through more costume changes than David Bowie in his glam phase,
each Magnificent Prose Rendition with a costume befitting the hyperbolic
content, each more outrageous than the last. These speeches require
considerable mnemonic stamina, some of them being Rabelaisian-like lists of
revered Irish sites, or famous Irishmen we know and love, some of them only
tenuously Irish. Frith’s appearance in one of these digressions, in the tallest
mitre this side of the Eternal City, complete with robes and a procession of
dubious-looking acolytes, she reciting names of saints canonised and
improvised, provoked mirth rather censure. It is just one example amongst many
of how the Director (Brenda Addie) matched text with costume to provide
commentary, humourous counterpoint, and the kind of extra special and truly
original fashion show that will not be found in Vogue. The perpetual slideshow
was inspired, at times truly illuminating the speeches. It never became a
distraction either from the players or their performance.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the stage, the men in the pub got
progressively more animated with each pint. Their conversation veers
unhesitatingly from one thing to another, but the Matter of Ireland is never
far from their addled thoughts. Nationalism is theme, argument, possibility,
dream and target of this episode. The central drive is a character named The
Citizen (Jason Cavanagh), a one-eyed, loudmouthed bigot. His aggressive nature
was reinforced by also playing his dog Garryowen; the apotheosis of this dual
role was Cavanagh’s delivery of a poem that was more canine howls than
recognisable English. The Citizen has a lot of shop about Ireland, but it is
transmitted in a disorderly and emotive fashion that defeats its objective of
total conversion. This painful process was well enacted by Cavanagh, augmented
by his buddies. We are left to guess the real name of The Citizen. Scholars
continue the conjectures to this day. Readers of Homer will know that naming
plays an important part in the Cyclops episode, with Odysseus tricking the
Giant by saying his name is ‘No Man’.This role of anonymous traveller in the face of attack is embodied in
Ulysses by Leopold Bloom. In the production Bloom (David John Watton) was
played gently with understatement, though it has to be said that anyone looks
understated when confronted by the Citizen. Bloom’s proper manners and correct
response at all times were articulated superbly, especially during the more
testing moments when the bar-flies Joe Hynes (Silas James) and Alf Bergan (Jim
Wright) started making veiled anti-Semitic remarks or unsubtle innuendoes about
Molly Bloom’s current state of affairs. The set was cleverly arranged with
beer-kegs for seats and tables, an ever-present reminder that these boyos are
all talk and no action, drinking away their days in a city of paralysis.
Despite Bloom’s present predicaments, he is the one who both thinks for himself
and makes himself active. The symbolism of Bloom refusing a drink but
requesting a cigar is a subtle gesture of homage by Joyce to his hero of the
quotidian. The rise and fall of the dialogue was directed with great care,
reaching its crescendo with the inevitable explosion of hatred from The Citizen
towards Bloom. Attendees can still see the Jacobs biscuit tin flying in
imaginary slow motion across the stage.

Crucial
to our understanding of this episode is our appreciation of the enigmatic
Narrator. It is the only episode in ‘Ulysses’ where this device is employed.
For some readers the Narrator is a thoroughly unpleasant individual, actively
encouraging violence and antipathy in others. He thrives on conflict, albeit
vicariously. Other readers interpret the Narrator as a Joycean alter-ego, the
dark side of Joyce that is drawn to the facts of hatred and violence even
though he personally detests and denounces them. Again, the Narrator has no
name. The production went with a hyped up Narrator (Phil Roberts) who engages
forcefully with the energy - physical, emotional and linguistic – that is
everywhere around him. Whether this energy is going anywhere or achieving much
is open to question, and is indeed a main message of the episode. He kept our
interest, without once gaining our sympathy, which is perhaps how it ought to
be. The Narrator walked about the stage reciting from the Book, like some
preacher of the old time religion. Nationalism in a suppressed society will be
internalised and find its way outside in challenging and dangerous ways.
Enthusiasm is followed by the maudlin, cheeriness by vitriol. The Director and
her Script Providers (il maestro Graeme Anderson, Sian Cartwright,
Frances Devlin-Glass and Roz Hames) stuck to this shifting dynamic in the
Narrator’s words, with admirable results. Joyce understood acutely how
sentimentality is the other side of the coin from nationalistic and other kinds
of violence: the two sides of this coin are displayed in the parallel texts of
the episode. Onstage it was blatant and transfixing.

The
history of Bloomsday in Melbourne can now recognisably be divided into two
periods, before and after the Centenary of the setting, 2004. BC (Before the
Centenary) saw the day planned by a Committee that wrote many delegated and
variegated scripts, some of them highly original using ‘Ulysses’ as the
starting point more than the focus. The same Committee was also responsible for
finding multiple venues, worrying about lost sheep at peripatetic street
readings, all bookings, the lot. AD (After Dublin) has seen the curtailment of
a full writing team in favour of direct use of full-text, minus any new words
from outside the book. Thus last year we saw the brothel scene known as Circe
turned into a carefully crafted theatre piece for small ensemble. Likewise this
year, Cyclops was given this intense treatment. The change, from a large
production team and overflow of professional and amateur actors to a tight
stage crew and only expert actors, has seen a renaissance in the quality of
productions for Bloomsday in Melbourne. Expectations have been lifted with each
new stage production as, clearly, this mode works exceedingly well, bringing
out the best in the actors and direction. Concentration on a single episode
works well, opens up all sorts of new avenues, and is a treat for the long-term
punters. The Open Stage in Swanston Street was an ideal venue.

This year’s seminar speakers looked at this same Cyclops episode, in particular
our Director Frances Devlin-Glass argued for the Irish patterning of Ulysses
generally as part of a deliberate literary structure that goes along inside the
Homeric parallels. She wished us to see the digressions in Cyclops as not
simply period satires but as texts that inform, bleed into, and comment on the
‘action’ parts of the episode. Val Noone questioned Bloom's pacifism: Val is a
well-known Melbourne activist who was involved in the Vietnam Moratorium. He
couldn’t but see the treatment of Sinn Fein founders in the scene as full of
deliberate jokes by Joyce. Coming from an expert in the minutiae of Irish
political history, this only confirmed the audience’s understanding that
everything in ‘Ulysses’ might ultimately be a joke, even the bits they don’t
understand. Val also talked enlighteningly about all the Irish nationalists
active in Melbourne in 1904. He even introduced what is probably a first to
Bloomsday in Melbourne, a quiz to identify the people whose names were used for
the branches of the Irish National Foresters, and that marched on St Patrick’s
Day 1904 in Melbourne. The audience proved in fact to be very well-informed and
next time the Committee will have to be ready with prizes.

The dinner was held again at La Notte in Lygon Street Carlton, the Little Rome
of Melbourne. It is seventy years since the death of the author. Your
correspondent arranged the dinner entertainment, a reading of the NewYork Times
obituary of January 1941, interspersed with ironic or affirmative counterpoints
from James Joyce's writings. Bill Johnston read the ‘Ulysses’ bits, Jim Wright
the Finnegans Wake parts, and Philip Harvey was the obituarist. The obituary is
full of inaccuracies, which were brought to the diners' attention by use of a
duck whistle. Coinages were underlined by a music box and dubious statements in
the obituary were indicated by the tingling of a triangle. We live in a
post-Ellmann world, spoilt with the amount of factual information about Joyce,
his family and friends. Much of the contents of the obituaryhttp://www.nytimes.com/books/00/01/09/specials/joyce-obit.htmlwas ten or twenty years out-of-date.
Plainly the obituary was lifted straight from the newspaper’s ‘deaths file’
without much care for editorial reflection. The joke was pretty much on the New
York Times.Those at the dinner then
stood to toast James Joyce. The author is dead! Long live the author!